Succulent
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: Succulent. Sterek drabbles that delineate the meanings of the word succulent. This series of drabbles is complete.
1. Slippery S's and Hard C's

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am making no profit, monetary or otherwise, through the writing of this.

**A/N:** Just a little something that I found hiding in my computer. The exploration of the different meanings of succulent. SpaghettiTacos inspired this, in a way. I am highly suggestible, just the mention of a word, or something, and writing happens (at times).

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"Succulent," Stiles reads the word he's just written down aloud. "Succ...u...lent," he draws the word out, enjoying the sound of it. The hard c's and the slippery sounding 's' and the long vowel sound in the middle.

The more he says it, the better it sounds, and then he gets to the point where he's said it too much - is twenty-five times really too much for such a beautiful, sexy sounding word - and it starts to sound like nonsense.

"Succulent?"

Stiles jumps, bangs his knee on the underside of his desk and then hops around on one foot. His heart is beating a thousand miles a second and he turns to scowl at Derek. "Is it just me, or are you honest to god trying to kill me?"

"Uh..."

Stiles takes a deep breath, presses a hand to his chest and counts to ten. "What are you doing here?" he asks when he's certain that he has himself under control.

"What's succulent?" Derek asks, completely evading the question (as usual).

"What kind of answer is that?" Stiles is no stranger to the game of answering a question with a question, and he needs the time to get his still racing heart under control.

Derek shrugs and takes a step forward, closing the gap between them, which isn't all that big because Stiles' room isn't huge.

"Succulent is a word, Derek," Stiles says, and he rubs his scalp which is suddenly feeling a little itchy.

"I know that." Derek actually rolls his eyes and Stiles isn't sure whether he should laugh or be offended. "What are you using the word succulent for?"

Stiles narrows his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. Offended. That's how he feels. "What, I can't use the word succulent? Is there a cap on the use of the word succulent, or, are only certain people allowed to use that word? Have you suddenly joined forces with my English teacher, moonlighting as the word police? I'll have you know that I've got a perfectly good reason for using that word..."

Derek's lips make it impossible for Stiles to continue his rant, particularly as they are pressed against his, muffling the rest of his speech in a fashion which makes him sound a little like a cross between the Muppets', Animal and Bobcat Goldthwait. It isn't a pretty sound, but then again, Stiles isn't really all that concerned about how he sounds right now.

What he's more concerned with is why he's wrapping his hands around Derek's neck and pulling the man backward, toward his bed. His last coherent thought, because kissing Derek really leaves him incapable of thought, is that he's found another, better use for the word succulent than how he's used it in his English term paper. Succulent: 1. Derek's lips, full and decidedly greedy as they take control of his lips; 2. Derek's tongue tasting of hickory smoke and cinnamon; 3. Derek's fingers touching his skin in places where he's never been touched before, and eliciting goose bumps in their wake.

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Would anyone like more?


	2. Juicy

**Disclaimer:** See initial chapter_  
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**A/N: **Thanks for the lovely reviews - keep 'em coming (please)

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_One meaning for the word, succulent, is 'full of juice, juicy.'_ Stiles thinks the sentence over, and then over again. The words seem to float up off the computer screen and he can't really catch them - they're meaningless.

Lost in thought, Stiles chews on the eraser of his pencil, twisting it this way and that until it pops off into his mouth. He frowns, forehead creasing, lips turning downward in an expressive pout. He spits the bit of eraser out of his mouth and sticks his tongue out, brushing it with his fingers to try to get rid of taste of rubber mixed with graphite.

"Full of juice, juicy," he reads the words aloud, hoping that the words will make sense if he hears them, and he leans in closer to the screen of his computer.

He blinks, thinking that maybe when he opens his eyes again the words will somehow rearrange themselves or just be different words altogether. He blinks again, and sure enough, the definition remains the same. He leans back in his chair, flings the eraserless pencil at the computer screen, watches as it pings off the screen and onto the floor, and then bends over to pick it up, fingers scrabbling over the wooden floorboards. He has to get out of his chair and search for the mangled writing tool on his hands and knees.

And that's how Derek finds him, on his hands and knees, scouring the floor for a distorted pencil. Of course Derek doesn't know that's what Stiles is doing when he pops into the boy's window without an invitation, nor does he know that, moments before his arrival, Stiles was picturing his mouth, particularly his lips, in conjunction with the word, succulent. Derek stands in the middle of the room, his tall, lithe figure haloed in moonlight, and he admires the curve of the boy's ass from his vantage point.

'Juicy,' the word pops into Derek's head, taking him off-guard and he takes an involuntary step backward, as though Stiles somehow put the word in his head. When Stiles mutters a series of curses and something about a pencil, Derek takes that opportunity to clear his throat.

Stiles quite literally jumps, and it reminds Derek of a cat, but his chuckle dies in his throat when Stiles' head bangs into the underside of his desk rather hard and the boy then falls to the floor and places a hand over the quickly forming lump on his head. Blood. The scent is pungent - salty and like pennies left out in the rain. Derek curses and strides to Stiles' side.

Kneeling beside the boy, he places a hand on his back, ignores the way Stiles stiffens, and then carefully extricates the boy from beneath the desk, pulling him backwards into the facsimile of a hug.

"You really are trying to kill me, aren't you?" Stiles says once he's stopped trying to get away from Derek's hold, going lax in the man's arms. "First my knee, now my head, and can I just say, ouch? 'cause it really hurts, and...ooh, there's blood, blood on my fingers."

"Here, let me," Derek says, and his voice is quiet, unpanicked, a complete reversal of what Stiles' is right now.

He pushes Stiles' hand away from the lump on his head and then he places his own fingers against it, closes his eyes and concentrates. It's been awhile since he's done something like this, and he wants it to work, wants to ease the boy's pain. It takes far longer than it should, but then he feels it in the way that Stiles relaxes against him and lets out a breath of contentment. It isn't much, he knows, especially considering that it was his fault - again - that Stiles is nursing yet another injury, but it's what he has to offer.

"Thanks," Stiles stutters on the word, and cranes his neck to look up into Derek's face, "I don't know what you did, but thank you."

"You're welcome," Derek says, and he offers Stiles something even rarer than the use of his powers to heal - a smile.

"Did you know that your lips are succulent?" Stiles asks around a yawn, his eyes already halfway toward closing, and Derek blinks, uncertain that he's heard the boy correctly. "You know, as in, 'full of juice, juicy,' it's in the dictionary you know." He nods and pats Derek on the cheek, even as his eyes slip closed and his breath evens out with sleep.

Derek frowns and stares down at Stiles, the use of his powers usually don't have that kind of effect on someone, but then again, Stiles has never been what Derek would classify as 'normal' and he is a little rusty with using his powers. He shakes his head, brushes his lips against Stiles' forehead and gathers the boy up in his arms. He carries Stiles to the bed, and frowns again, because Stiles is much too light. He tucks Stiles beneath the covers and freezes when Stiles' fingers wrap themselves around his wrist, anchoring him to the boy.

Sighing, Derek tries to pry the fingers loose, but Stiles' grip is like that of a leech, and so he decides that the only recourse is for him to stay the night. He lies down beside Stiles and stretches out on the bed, and, when the boy turns toward him, melding himself to the man's side, he doesn't move away, but rather wraps himself around Stiles, making a protective cocoon around him.

"You're the juicy one," he whispers against Stiles' ear, and then he falls asleep, comfortably entwined with Stiles. It's the best sleep he's had in years.


	3. Wolf-Eating Plants

**Disclaimer:** See initial chapter.

**A/N**: Written for SpaghettiTacos, and to fulfill my h/c bingo square: attacked by a creature. This one also features the word, succulent, but as a noun - a succulent is, "Any plant with fleshy, thick tissues adapted to water storage. Some succulents (e.g., the cactus) store water only in the stem and have no leaves or very small leaves; others (e.g., agaves) store water mainly in the leaves. Most have deep or broad root systems and are native to either deserts or regions that have a semiarid season. In succulents, the stomata (see stoma) close during the day and open at night—the opposite of the usual pattern—in order to minimize transpiration." Quoted from the online Meriam-Webster dictionary on June 1st, 2013

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Derek peers over Stiles' shoulder, and ignores the sharp intake of breath the boy makes, as well as his increased heart rate. He likes how he can sneak up on the human, and take him by surprise, even after months of doing so. He likes the way it makes color rush to Stiles' cheeks, and the way the boy's eyes narrow in anger, even as his pupils widen with his arousal.

It's…_becoming_…Derek thinks. Red is a good color on his boy. He blinks at the thought that his subconscious deemed appropriate to push to the forefront of his mind, and frowns.

_Mine. Stiles. My boy._

Shaking himself, Derek pokes at a strange looking plant that's a new addition to Stiles' computer desk. It looks like some kind of desert plant. Its thick, sharp leaves spill over the sides of a pot which is much too small for it.

"What's that?" Derek doesn't like the looks or smell of it.

He sniffs the air, and his hackles rise as the scent that is coming off of the plant reminds Derek of imminent danger and death. He pushes a protesting Stiles back from the computer desk, sending the teen sprawling to the floor, and puts himself between the nefarious plant and Stiles.

It's almost funny, and if Derek was given to nervous laughter, he might have laughed when the plant, in the blink of an eye, seemed to grow menacingly. Instead, he frowns, and pushes Stiles back down to the floor, when the boy starts to rise.

Stiles rubs at his shoulder when Derek releases him. "Ouch!"

"Stay down," Derek's growl makes Stiles cringe away from him.

Derek's momentarily distracted by that, because he doesn't want to hurt Stiles, and hates to see that look of fear in the teen's eyes directed at him. There was a time when Derek had relished making Stiles hurt, and scaring him, but he's long since passed that. Now, he wants to comfort the teen, and tease a smile, or a full-blown laughing fit out of the boy. It's enough to make his head spin, and Derek wonders how he let things get this far – how he let Stiles wheedle his way into his heart.

"Derek, I wouldn't…" Stiles' protest is cut off when the plant, now grown to monstrous proportions, howls and reaches for Derek with thick, sharp, menacing leaves.

It's as the plant latches onto his arm with a painful 'bite' that it registers in Derek's mind what he'd seen on Stiles' computer screen before he'd knocked the boy to the floor: _Lupus lingua Aeonium_ – wolf's tongue agave. He has no idea why Stiles was studying that when he'd snuck into the teen's room to harass him, and take his mind off of some of his own troubles.

Derek's never heard of such a thing before, and his vision grows hazy as the plant continues to grow and howl at him. It stabs its pointed leaves right through his skin, making him bleed as it fastens itself onto him, like a thousand tiny teeth. It pulls him closer toward a pulsing, pinkish-purplish center.

Derek flashes on a movie that his sister, Laura, loved – _Little Shop of Horrors – _he thinks it's called. He'd always scoffed at the man-eating plant, but here he is, facing off with one, and he's on the losing side.

Derek can hear Stiles shouting his name, can feel the teen pulling at him, even as the plant pulls him closer toward its gaping, stinking maw. He feels strangely like the rope in a game of tug-of-war, and feverishly hopes that Stiles – the teen he's always needled for being weak and merely human – will come out the victor.

Derek's body is on fire – heat and flames and pain like he's never experienced before. He can feel the plant's sharp barbs moving inside of him, pulsing along with the beating of his heart, supping on his blood, and it hurts. It hurts, and Stiles is pulling, pulling, pulling him backward, while the plant is tugging him forward, dragging him ever closer to its cavernous opening. There aren't any teeth, just leaves, grotesque, thick, green leaves oozing something akin to blood, except it's black and sizzling, and it's burning him alive.

Derek's heart feels like it's going to burst right out of his chest, and Stiles is screaming his name. The teen's voice, though it is loud and scratchy, and pained-sounding, gives Derek something to hold onto. It anchors him, and then Derek's straining his ears past the teen's nearly incoherent babbling, to Stiles' heartbeat. It is strong, steady, calming, even as it races loudly in Stiles' chest – tha thump, tha thump, tha thump, tha thump.

Derek uses every last ounce of energy he has to focus on listening to the sound of Stiles' heart. He lets it envelop him and smiles as he loses the battle against the wolf-eating agave, letting it take him toward its yawning jaws.

Derek wants to tell Stiles that it's okay; that it doesn't hurt anymore. He's cold, and he's got a vague suspicion that being cold is not a good thing, especially since wolves have a tendency to run warm, but he can't voice any of his concerns for himself, for Stiles. He worries that if the boy doesn't win the battle against the plant, he'll be next. It makes Derek's blood run even colder, and he makes one last, but failed attempt, to pull away from the plant.

The plant has sapped every last vestige of strength from him, leaving Derek at its mercy. His last coherent thoughts, before the darkness takes over, are of Stiles, and his heart lurches painfully in his chest as Derek thinks about the plant latching itself onto the teen and killing him. He can't let that happen to Stiles, but he's helpless to stop it as the plant sinks its razor sharp leaves deeper into his arms, legs, stomach and chest, tearing him apart as it swallows him alive.

Derek's burning in Hell's fire, surrounded by the stench of brimstone and sulfur. He's being flayed alive, can feel blood seeping from the multitude of wounds on his body, and he knows that this is the Hell meant for him. He'd escaped the fate of the Hales locked up in their home, burned alive, what feels like a lifetime ago, and Derek has always known that the fire would eventually find its way to him – seeking vengeance upon him. He was the one who deserved to die, not them.

He's dying now, and Derek almost welcomes it. Except there's an annoying – tha thump, tha thump, tha thump – ringing in his ears, making it impossible for him to let go. He sees his mother's face, reaches out for his father's calloused hands, but they slip through his fingers as Derek's pulled backward with a supernatural force that wakes him and leaves his head spinning.

"Die, you fucking plant," Stiles' voice sounds harsh and wrong to Derek's ears; the words uncharacteristic of the teen.

Derek opens his eyes, or at least he thinks he does. He can't see much. It's dark, and he can't seem to focus his eyes on much of anything. He feels drugged, drained, and weak as a newborn pup. He can just make out Stiles' ceiling. He knows it well. He's fallen asleep many a night staring up at it, detailing and counting each of the imperfections in the woodwork in an attempt to keep his mind, and his hands, off of the teen sleeping beside him.

Derek hears a scuffle, and his eyes shift, slowly, toward the sound of it. He isn't sure what he's seeing, but it does something funny to his heart as he watches the shadows dance across the floor, the wall, the ceiling. Stiles' slim, tall shadow jumping and jabbing and bobbing around, beating down the menacing shadow of the plant – so many arm like leaves waving this way and that, trying, in vain, to keep out of Stiles' reach.

When the battle's over, Derek chuckles, quietly to himself, his eyelids sliding closed. The plant, no longer an overbearing, growing monster, has been reduced to nothing more than a small potted plant. Ichor leaking leaves have been scattered about the bedroom floor like severed limbs. Stiles' chest is heaving, his heart pounding like mad in his chest, and he looks like a warrior, covered from head-to-toe in black blood.

Stiles sinks to his knees beside Derek. Though Derek cannot muster the strength to open his eyes, he can feel the teen beside him, and moans when Stiles' hands roam over his body. The teen's hands are trembling, and his touch is light, and Derek wants to wrap himself around Stiles and never let the boy go, but he can't move.

"Shh." Stiles' breath is hot and moist against his neck, the teen's susurration sends shivers down Derek's spine, and he musters the strength necessary to open his eyes.

Derek's breath catches in his throat at what he sees – the teen is straddling him, his weight heavy on Derek's stomach, and Stiles' head is bent over him, brown eyes filled with worry and something like love and fear and anger and…lips crashing down on his. The kiss isn't gentle. Stiles' hands, his fingers, are hard and unforgiving as they dig into Derek's shoulders. The teen's lips are warm, salty with tears, and bruising in their force.

When Stiles pulls away, breathing heavily, Derek whimpers. He moves to follow, wanting to taste of Stiles' lips, mouth, tongue, but Stiles' eyes are hard, and Derek falls back, his head thumping painfully against the hardwood floor.

"You shouldn't have come," Stiles says.

His voice cracks and he brushes at something on his cheek with the back of his hand. Derek tries, but fails to raise a hand to Stiles' cheek. Tears are glistening there, and Derek frowns, wondering why Stiles is crying.

"You are such an idiot," Stiles says after a moment, and he kisses Derek again, stealing the wolf's breath.

He pulls away, and Derek grinds his teeth. It's painful, the loss of Stiles' lips moving against his own, and he surges upward, but Stiles' pushes him back. It's odd, being weak enough for Stiles to push him around.

The alpha in Derek doesn't like it at all. It needs to dominate, conquer, mount and fuck Stiles until the teen knows who is boss, and kowtows to him. But, Derek tells that part of him to shut up, because there's another part of him which is stirred by this more aggressive, pushy side of Stiles. It's keen to have Stiles boss him around, and play the alpha.

Stiles looks down at him, and shakes his head. Derek wonders at the look in the teen's eyes – exasperation and fondness. He shifts his weight, and Derek frowns when Stiles is once more kneeling beside him, rather than straddling his waist.

"You could have died," Stiles says quietly, and he traces Derek's lips, his cheek, his ear, with an index finger, before dipping down to kiss him on the cheek. It's a chaste kiss, but it elicits a less than chaste reaction from Derek.

"What was that thing?" Derek growls, casting a look of pure hatred toward Stiles' computer desk.

Stiles gives a bitter laugh, and shakes his head. "It was a _gift_ from someone who pretended to be an anonymous admirer. Wolf's tongue agave – apparently it's attracted to werewolves, and its venom acts like wolf's bane. It could have killed you."

"But it didn't," Derek says, his head spinning at the implications of someone giving this particular plant to Stiles, "because of you."

Stiles shakes his head, tears filling his eyes. He brushes at them angrily, and takes a shaky breath. "It's harmless to humans," he says, his voice thick with unshed tears. "It could have killed you Derek. Whoever gave it to me, and my money's on the Argents, knew, they _knew _that they could get to you through me."

Stiles shudders, and Derek, mustering, and finding strength that he doesn't really have, sits up, and pulls Stiles close. Stiles places his head in the crook of Derek's neck, and wraps his arms around him, hugging him tightly. The teen's body is warm, and it feels right, holding him as he cries.

"How'd you do it?" Derek asks once Stiles' silent sobs subside.

Stiles sniffs and he wipes his nose on Derek's tee-shirt. Derek resists the urge to scold the teen, because, if anything would ruin this intimate moment, that would. Stiles shifts in his arms, and raises his eyes to look up into Derek's.

Derek's heart does a funny little flop in his chest, and he swallows as love for _his boy_ wells up in his chest. He kisses Stiles' nose, his chin, his lips, his neck…doesn't want to stop kissing, but he has to, because he needs answers.

Stiles swallows, and Derek can feel heat rise to the boy's face. "I told the plant that it couldn't have you," he says, sheepishly, muttering, "told it you were mine, and that it had better get its grubby little fronds off of you, or I would take a weed whacker to it." Stiles' eyes drop, and he squeezes Derek harder.

Derek places his chin on Stiles' head, and he pictures the young man defending him like that, and laughs until he cries. Stiles stiffens, and pulls back. There's an indignant look on his face, and he narrows his eyes, which are flashing with anger and hurt. He slaps Derek's back and tries to extricate himself from the wolf's embrace, but Derek stops laughing, and, with a wolfish grin, he kisses Stiles until he's no longer trying to leave him.

"Thank you," Derek says, when he concedes to break off the kiss and let Stiles breathe.

Stiles' lips turn downward in a pout, but he must sense the sincerity in Derek's words, because he buries his face into Derek's neck, and clings to him. "Don't ever do that again," he says.

"What?" Derek can't fathom ever facing off against another wolf-eating plant again.

"Don't ever almost die," Stiles murmurs, and then his heart starts thundering in his chest, his breathing picks up speed, and Derek rubs his hands across Stiles' back, trying to calm the trembling, panicking teen. "Don't die."

"Shh," Derek whispers, burying his face into Stiles' hair, kissing him. "It's okay. I didn't die."

"Yeah, well, that plant is going to burn," Stiles says a moment later. There's an edge of steel to his voice, and Derek thinks he can hear a whimper coming from the pot on the computer table. When he chances a look in the direction of the 'monster', he thinks it has gotten smaller. It's little more than a tuft of grass peeking over the lip of the pot.

"That can wait 'til morning," Derek utters.

Derek feels completely wasted, and the floor seems like a very comfortable place to rest, but, before he can even close his eyes, Stiles is pulling him to his feet, and ushering him into the bathroom. Derek's covered in tiny cuts, which are already beginning to heal. Some of them quicker than others. He catches Stiles' eyes in the mirror, and the teen blushes, and ducks out of the bathroom, muttering something about towels, and washcloths, and how he'll be taking care of the murderous plant while Derek showers.

When he's finished showering, there's a fresh tee-shirt, and a pair of sweats that Derek knows aren't Stiles' – he can only assume that they belong to Sheriff Stilinski – folded, and lying on the toilet seat. When he steps from the bathroom, and makes his way back to Stiles' bedroom, Derek is happy to find that, true to Stiles' word, the homicidal plant is nowhere to be seen.

Yawning, he blinks, and, closing the door behind him, crawls beneath the covers that Stiles is holding open for him. He's too exhausted to protest that they shouldn't do this, that Stiles is too young, though the boy is almost eighteen, and he's a jaded, alpha werewolf with a shady past and anger management issues. Those things will still be true in the morning, but for tonight, Derek, and his inner alpha, give into the instinctive need to find comfort, and healing in arms that are ready to receive him.

Sighing, Derek relaxes beneath the blankets. They are warm and cozy. Derek smiles when Stiles shifts and moves until his head is resting on Derek, directly above his heart, his ear pressed tightly against Derek's tee-shirt clad chest. He wraps an arm around Stiles, and presses his lips to the top of Stiles' head.

"Sleep, my valiant knight," he says, the words leaving his lips of their own accord.

Stiles snorts, and presses his lips to Derek's arm. "Night," he says around a yawn.

Derek waits until Stiles' breath and heart beats even out, and then he closes his eyes, and sleeps, wrapped up in warmth and love.

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Please leave a review if you enjoyed reading, and would like more.


	4. Fourth

**Disclaimer: **See initial installment.

**A/N: **_Succulent:_ affording mental nourishment. Also inspired by an episode of "Big Valley," that I recently saw on hulu. It is entitled, "By Force and Violence," and featured Heath stuck beneath the side of a wagon due to deep mud.

Reposted because another writer encouraged me to...'give it some time' - really, I kind of need a kick in the pants, particularly when my writer self-esteem is super low. So, this is the last installment of this series, unless I get cause to add more.

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So, he's trapped beneath a section of Derek's dilapidated house that fell on him during a smallish earthquake, which Beacon Hills rarely gets, and it's getting dark, and the only thing that Stiles can think about is Derek's mouth. And his lips, and tongue, and teeth. And, how the man-wolf, in spite of his lack of social graces, is actually quite intelligent, when he applies himself.

"Stay awake, Stiles," he tells himself, his voice little above a whisper, because the beam is putting pressure right against his stomach.

It's difficult to breathe, let alone stay awake, but Stiles knows that if he's going to survive, he's got to stay awake. He's read that somewhere or maybe seen it in a movie or maybe it's just something that comes to people when they're on their deathbed, breathing out their last breaths.

"The circumference of pi is…blueberries, or is it pecan, I like pecans. Pecan pie. Not hungry, sorry dad," Stiles mumbles, and he pushes against the beam, but, just like the other times he's tried, it doesn't move. He isn't strong enough. Not like Scott or Isaac, or Derek, with all of his wolfy muscles, and a smile that makes Stiles' mouth water.

"Water." Stiles licks his lips. They're dry and chapped, and feel like sandpaper against his tongue. He doesn't know how long he's been trapped in Derek's house – well, technically it's the county's house, but technicalities don't matter right now. What matters is that he went to the house that morning, hoping to find Derek there, but now it's getting dark, and he can't feel his legs, and his arms feel like rubber.

"Did you know that there's a rubber chicken spirit contest in Spokane, Washington?" Stiles doesn't even know who he's talking to, or why it's important to talk, but he thinks it might have something to do with staying awake, and alive, and the fact that the rubberiness of his arms is getting worse, making it harder for him to push at the beam.

"I discovered that when I was researching the origins of rubber chickens, a question which, not even the Smithsonian knows the answer to. Lewis and Clark and Ferris High Schools compete each year. It started in 1983. I wonder if Beacon Hills High can compete…can you imagine how awesome Scott and Isaac would be at chucking rubber chickens? Though, I don't think they actually chuck chickens…maybe a chicken eating contest would be more apropos for Scott and Isaac."

Stiles feels a cough building up in his chest, and he's not sure that it's such a good thing to cough when he's trapped beneath a wooden beam. It builds and builds, and he's powerless to stop it. His chest burns, and he wonders when the fire started, and if anyone will get there in time to stop the golden glow before it consumes him.

"Huh…no smoke…" Stiles turns his head toward the source of the brilliant orange color, and he smiles, because it's not a fire, it's a sunset. Probably the last sunset that he'll ever get to see. He frowns, and coughs, placing the back of his hand against his mouth, because it's cleaner than his palm, which is caked in dust. He lifts his hand in the air, watches as the dust motes dance and swirl in the golden-hued air stirred up by the movement of his hand. It's kind of pretty, and Stiles thinks of Lydia – the way her hair flows all red-orange, like the setting sun. Stiles thinks of Derek too, how the man-wolf's muscles ripple to bursting beneath the tee-shirts he wears.

"Dance with me," Stiles says, reaching toward the images of Lydia and Derek, only to have them disintegrate when his dust-covered fingers touch them.

Stiles knows how to dance, and it's not the shuffle-lurch moves that he's seen portrayed on Peanuts cartoons since he was little. His mom taught him how to waltz. She taught him the Charleston when he was barely old enough to walk. She taught him other dance moves too. Bottom line is that Stiles knows how to dance. He can shake his ass with the best of them.

"Got a nice ass," Stiles says, and he's concerned with the way that his s's slur on the word ass. "Ass…asssssssss…assssss," he says, just to see if the slurring quality of the word is better or worse with the repetition of it, and then he's thinking of Derek's ass, which is a really nice ass. All curvy, and tight, and…"Assy." Except, when he says it, it sounds like ashy rather than assy, and Derek is not ashy.

The sunset is really quite beautiful – gold shifts to red to purple, or maybe heather and it's all painted on a backdrop of navy blue – and Stiles thinks that perhaps the beauty of the sunset, rather than the beam lying on top of him is what's stealing his breath from him. He takes a deep breath, but ends up coughing and sputtering on the dust.

"Dust, dust everywhere, and not a draught to breathe." Stiles laughs, and coughs, and chokes on the dust.

"Could really use a rescue right about now," Stiles says once the coughing subsides. His voice is little more than a whisper, so low that he doubts even a werewolf could hear it, provided that a werewolf was nearby.

"So, I was thinking," Stiles says, drawing in as much breath as he's able to. It's a painful process, breathing, and he forgets what he was going to say, what he was thinking. His thoughts are failing him, and that never happens. He's always had succulence to call upon – thoughts to provide mental nourishment. Thoughts that fed, one upon another.

"I'm dying," Stiles says, and he laughs. It's a short bark of noise that ends in a pathetic sort of sob that he doesn't have enough breath to sustain.

He's dying like the day, except, he's not going out in a beautiful array of golds and reds. No, Stiles is going out in a sputtering of coughs and wheezing breaths, and darkness that's so sudden Stiles wonders if he hasn't already died, except there's too much pain yet for that.

"No." The voice that speaks isn't his, and Stiles frowns, because he's the only one here, and he shouldn't be hearing anyone else's voice, let alone Derek's. "Don't close your eyes, Stiles."

"Not closing my eyes, just resting them," Stiles argues, because he's tired, and there's a stupid beam lying on top of him cutting off his air supply, and the beautiful sunset of his death is being blocked by some dark shadow that refuses to move.

"Scott, Isaac." The voice is loud, commanding, and Stiles worries that it will make the earth rumble and shift like it did earlier. He's afraid that it will make the entire roof fall on top of the both of them. "On my count, move the pile of beams that's trapping Stiles."

"What'll you be doing?" That's Scott; Stiles would recognize his best friend's voice anywhere – it's equal parts worried and defiant, and Stiles wants to tell Scott that now is not the time to go against Derek, even as much as he wants to applaud Scott for standing up to the alpha wolf.

"Just filled with contradictions," Stiles murmurs to himself. He thinks that he's alive, but he isn't certain. He thinks he's being rescued, but he can't trust himself right now. Stiles wants the darkness to move out of the way, so that maybe he can see Scott, but it remains stubbornly rooted in front of his line of vision, affording him a picture of nothing but an all-consuming blackness.

"I'll be getting Stiles out from beneath the roof." Derek's voice is low and rumbly and Stiles giggles as he gets a picture of Winnie the Pooh rubbing his tummy, lamenting the fact that he's got no honey to satisfy his hunger, and sate his rumbly tumbly.

"Piglet to your Pooh," Stiles says, and he nods, or attempts to nod. His head hurts, and he wonders what words of wisdom Piglet would have for such a time as this. The Tao of Piglet. It should mean something to him, but it doesn't. Not now. Not when the weight that's been pinning him to the dusty floor of Derek's derelict former home is suddenly lifting, flooding him with air and a burning ache in his chest.

The dark shadow moves, and so does Stiles – he's being pulled across the floorboards more quickly than he thinks is safe, and he wonders if there'll be wooden splinters embedded in his back. His perspective of the hole in the roof shifts along with the ephemeral light that loses its battle with darkness as the sun continues its nighttime descent, giving way to the moon. Everything is bathed in a halo of soft, white light, and then there's another weight, this one across his chest, that makes it difficult for him to take in deep, life-sustaining breaths.

A loud groaning sound that Stiles knows is not made by human or wolf, but by a house ready to collapse, reaches his ears as though from far away, and then he's being lifted and carried, and he's not a princess or a fainting lady, or a mermaid just getting used to her newly sprouted land-legs. He's a man, well, technically speaking, he's still a teen, but he's got muscles and strength and he can take care of himself. He's got moves, and he's rescued Derek – more than once – without any wolfy powers at his disposal.

"'M a man," Stiles says, and he pushes against Derek's chest, which, turns out, is as immovable as the wooden beam that Stiles spent the better part of a day trapped beneath.

In response, Derek grunts, and tightens his grip on Stiles. "Scott, Isaac, hurry. It's going to collapse."

"Get Stiles out of here." Scott sounds panicky, and so very much like a pup yapping at Derek's heels that it's not even funny. Stiles knows that it won't always be that way, that his friend will grow up to be an alpha in his own right – he's seen it in his dreams – but for now, Scott is still just a worried friend, green and young, and still growing into his overly long limbs.

"Move," Derek growls. The single syllable reverberates through Stiles like rolling thunder.

He can't make Derek put him down, even once they've cleared the house. Instead, Derek holds him tighter, close enough for Stiles to feel Derek's every breath, the tautness of his muscles. Stiles' ear is pressed close to Derek's chest, and he can hear Derek's heart drumming as the man starts to run. He's quick, but not quick enough for them to escape the entirety of the aftermath as the house comes crashing down behind them with a deafening roar of cracking, splintering wood.

"You can put him down now." Scott's voice has lost its panicky edge, but there's something else there that Stiles can't qualify with a name or a label, yet. He's usually better with words than this, and he wonders if his best friend's new word of the day calendar has taught Scott a word that would match the strange tone that's in his voice.

Stiles opens his mouth to reiterate what Scott has said, but the words don't seem to want to come out, and he closes his mouth. His eyelids are heavier than they've ever been, and Stiles doesn't think that sleeping would be a bad thing to do right now. He's no longer trapped, and it doesn't hurt too much to breathe – there's just a dull sort of aching pain in his chest whenever he tries to take too deep a breath. He feels safe and warm, and…comfortable.

"Toasty," Stiles mumbles, and then he closes his eyes. "Safe." He pats Derek's chest, and sighs.

"I'll take him home," Derek says, and Stiles nods, or tries to nod, because home sounds like a very good idea right now.

"I can take him home." Scott's voice still has that strange lilt to it, and Stiles makes a mental note to flip through his friend's calendar to see if he can't put a name to it, as well as the feeling that being held by Derek seems to be awakening in him. It's a nice, floaty feeling, like being on a cloud, and Stiles doesn't want it to end, so he's hoping that Derek won't let Scott take him home.

"Scott, let Derek take him home." Isaac's voice is quiet, yet firm. "He won't let anything happen to him."

"But…" Scott's never sounded so much like a lost puppy. Stiles has half a mind to open his eyes, but he feels much too comfy and cozy, and Derek's arms are like rocks. Comfortable, warm, safe rocks.

"Scott, Derek has him, let's go."

Stiles does open his eyes at that, or rather he tries to, because since when did that happen? Isaac and Scott? How did he miss that – his best friend hooking up with the curly-haired blonde?

"Sc…Isaac?" Stiles barely manages to get the names of his friends past his lips, and he thinks that maybe he hasn't been all that successful at doing so when Derek's chest rumbles with a quiet sort of laughter. Stiles slaps Derek's chest, and is rewarded with a gentle, remonstrative growl.

"Fine, but…" Scott sounds reluctant to leave, and Stiles' heart warms at how much his best friend seems to want to protect him from the big bad wolf that is Derek.

He wonders if Isaac has a hand on Scott's arm, restraining him. It's a strange, sobering thought, and Stiles _will _be talking with Scott about this new development between Scott and Isaac, just as soon as he's able to open his eyes and stand on his own two feet.

For now, though, Stiles is content to just lie back, and let Derek carry him home. The man has a solid, muscular chest – it's safe and secure. The beat of Derek's heart is steady, like a metronome, against Stiles' ear, and he's earned his rest. He stayed awake and alive all day long, and now, he's earned the right to sleep.

"Shh," Derek breathes the word out, and Stiles wonders if he's spoken some of his thoughts aloud. He hopes that he hasn't, but doesn't think that it'll matter if he has. "I've got you. You're safe."

The unasked questions _(What were you doing at the house? Why didn't you call anyone?) _hang in the air between them, and Stiles knows that, come morning, Derek will be asking them, and he'll be answering. Right now, though Derek is holding him, and Stiles wants nothing more than to sleep and dream of Derek's mouth, and ass, and dancing rubber chickens. He's so out of it, that Stiles almost doesn't notice the kiss - Derek's lips pressed to his sweat and dust caked forehead.

* * *

Reviews really do make a difference.


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